


cut to the feeling

by bluelines



Category: Hockey RPF, Women's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-04
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-12-23 20:32:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11997435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluelines/pseuds/bluelines
Summary: Having a thing for the woman that comes in to buy a flower arrangement every week is the worst kind of torture for Meghan.





	cut to the feeling

The first time she comes in, she hits her head on a hanging Lobelia and ducks, reaching up to steady it. That’s Meghan’s introduction, and from behind the counter she tries not to laugh. It’s in a bad spot. She’s been waiting for someone to hit their head on it since they hung it up earlier in the week, but as far as she knows, this tall, apologetic woman is the first.

She tucks her chin-length brown hair behind her ears and comes to the register like she’s in trouble. Meghan smiles in a way that she hopes appears genuine and not like she’s still trying to hold her laughter in. It’s a little bit of both.

“Hi,” the woman says, “um, I need some flowers.”

She laughs at herself, which Meghan wasn’t expecting, and it’s a nice laugh, not awkward at all.

“Obviously,” she goes on to correct herself.

“Alright,” Meghan says, “what were you thinking? Is it a roses occasion, or…?”

“Oh,” the taller woman says, “no, it’s not really an occasion. I think roses are too serious, probably.”

This is Meghan’s favorite part of the job, day in and day out, trying to piece together people’s stories from their orders. It’s even better when she gets asked for advice, and with nobody else in the store she can come around from behind the register and focus entirely on this. She tells herself it’s out of curiosity, and that it has nothing to do with the light striped button-down rolled up to the woman’s elbows, or her strong forearms and blue eyes.

If it’s not an occasion, she’s buying someone flowers just because. 

“Any leads?” Meghan asks, “a favorite color or a favorite flower for the person getting this arrangement? A favorite season or holiday, even, I can work with that.”

“She likes oranges and yellows,” the other woman says, and Meghan’s heart leaps into her throat for a moment, like an exclamation point. There’s nothing she loves more than helping women buy flowers for their girlfriends. She nods seriously, taking an opportunity to look at the ground, and then glance up for a glimpse at the woman’s hands. No engagement ring or wedding ring, so a girlfriend it is. A girlfriend that’s getting some flowers just because this woman thought of it on her way home from work. Some people have all the luck.

“Alright,” Meghan says, “some orange chrysanthemums and maybe some fennel to break it up, I think? That’s yellow, yellow and orange.”

“Sounds great,” the other woman says. 

Meghan isn’t too proud to glance at the card when she rings the order up. ‘Gillian’ is a name that fits her well.

“I hope she enjoys them,” Meghan says, “come back and see us if she does. Or, you know, if she doesn’t.”

“Ha,” Gillian says, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

-

She shows up semi-regularly after that.

The second time, she walks in, ducks under the hanging Lobelia, and finds Meghan at the register with a cheerful smile. She’s in a t-shirt this time, and Meghan almost misses the rolled-up sleeves, except that there’s plenty to look at. Not that she should be ogling the shoulders of someone buying flowers for her girlfriend.

“I never got your name,” Gillian says, “last time.”

“Meghan,” Meghan offers, “did the flowers work out?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Gillian says, crossing her arms and leaning them onto the counter, “they were a huge hit.”

“Well,” Meghan says, “then it’s time to raise the bar, isn’t it?”

-

The third time she shows up, Meghan is in the back, pruning, when she hears the door open. 

“I’ll be right out,” she calls, testing the soil with her thumb for moisture.

“Take your time,” comes the reply, and Meghan recognizes Gillian’s deep and easy voice. She smiles and catches herself, trying to arrange her face into ‘pleasantly interested’ instead of whatever it’s doing right now.

When she comes out, Gillian is crouching next to a pot of red tulips--a declaration of love flower, good to pair with something more lighthearted, like a marjoram, associated plainly with joy and happiness. 

“I like these,” Gillian says, “but aren’t they funeral flowers?”

“Oh,” Meghan says, “no, lilies tend to be the ones that people buy for funerals, but they’re not necessarily associated with death, or anything. I mean, I guess it depends on how you view death, but they’re supposed to mean beauty and sweetness, so I’m not sure how the funeral thing happened.”

Gillian stands, and they’re a little close together, enough that Meghan can smell Gillian’s body wash or shampoo over the flowers, just for a moment, before she takes a step back.

“Wow,” Gillian says, “that’s deep. I didn’t realize flowers had all these meanings. I hope I haven’t been buying anything strange.”

“I wouldn’t let you,” Meghan promises. 

Gillian wanders over to a spray of morning glories. Meghan notices the way that Gilian’s nose turns up just a little bit, and finds herself thinking that it’s cute. 

“What about these?” Gillian asks, “I like these, what do they mean?”

“Affection,” Meghan murmurs.

“Oh,” Gillian says, “yeah, that’s good. I’ll take some of those home.”

Meghan tries not to imagine Gillian walking into a house with a handful of morning glories, but it’s impossible. The girl that Gillian gives the flowers to in her imagination is faceless, and Meghan knows it’s because she wishes it were her.

-

The next time Gillian comes in, she’s strange and restless, unable to pick anything. She’s usually so easy-going that Meghan’s first or second recommendation is the one that she ends up taking home with her, but today she paces the aisles for ten minutes before she settles on something.

While Meghan is ringing up Gillian’s coreopsis and yellow hyssops, Gillian is silent, another layer of weirdness that Meghan is curious about prying back. She almost asks whether they’re fighting and Gillian needs an apology arrangement, but if Gillian isn’t going to offer the information Meghan doesn’t want to ask for it. 

When Meghan hands the card back, Gillian lingers, chewing on her lips for a few moments. 

“Hey,” Gilian says, clearing her throat, “would you want to come to lunch with me sometime? There’s a sandwich place by the museum of natural history, and they have a glass flowers exhibit right now that seems up your alley. Unless you hate flowers in your spare time.”

Meghan is taken aback. Suddenly the image she had of Gillian is shattered, and she hates it. She can’t imagine Gillian doing what she’s doing now. Maybe every single bouquet was an apology. Maybe Gillian plays girls all over the city, and her simple, charming smile has been a coverup the whole time.

“Sure,” Meghan says coldly, “you, me, and the girl you’re buying flowers for can all go to lunch together.”

Gillian looks stunned, and Meghan can’t fathom why she’d be surprised. She’s been buying flowers from Meghan for weeks; it hasn’t been subtle. Meghan crosses her arms, and Gillian tilts her head a little bit. Meghan can’t tell if she looks angry or sheepish.

“Well,” Gillian says, “I have to say I don’t normally bring my mom with me on first dates.”

Meghan’s stomach drops right out of her.

“Your mom,” she says, but it’s not a question. She’s processing, imagining things all over again, this time imagining Gillian bringing her mother a bouquet of marigolds with her big, toothy smile. She wants to apologize. She also wants to wrap her arms around Gillian’s neck and pull her down like they’re in a romance novel. Buying flowers for her mom for _weeks_.

“Fuck,” Meghan says, pinching the bridge of her nose, “can we try that again? I’m sorry, ask me again.”

Gillian doesn’t laugh at her. Instead she leans her elbows on the counter like she had the first day, her flowers forgotten, and Meghan gets lost in her eyes for a few seconds, as cliché as it is.

“Meghan,” Gillian says, “I’d like to take you out to lunch.”

-

Gillian walks in the morning of their date, dressed for work, in her nice button-down with her sleeves rolled up again, a messenger bag over one shoulder and a thermos of coffee in one hand. Meghan is embarrassed, unable to stop herself from blushing now. She’s been blushing since she told Gillian she’d go to lunch, but it’s worse today. Everything is a little bit _more_ today.

“Hi,” Gillian says.

“Morning,” Meghan offers, and she can’t believe how shy she sounds. She’s not shy. 

“I have a date today,” Gillian says, “with this cute girl and I want to impress her, but I don’t want to scare her off with a flower that’s too serious, you know? So I was wondering what you’d suggest.”

“Carnation,” Meghan mumbles. Gillian grins widely at her, and Meghan fights away her embarrassment in a way that she considers valiant. She straightens up and holds eye contact and repeats herself, a little more clearly. “Get her carnations,” she says, “white ones.”

Gillian follows her to the flowers in question, and Meghan cuts a handful, just enough. She’ll see them again in a few hours. When she hands them over, Gillian’s smile softens a little bit, and once again they’re standing too close. Meghan is dizzy with the colors of the flowers and the color of Gillian’s eyes holding her steady.

“What do they mean?” Gillian asks.

“They’re good luck,” Meghan says, “and they mean innocence, too. They’re...sweet.”

“Perfect,” Gillian says. 

-

It’s the first time anyone’s bought _her_ flowers.


End file.
